


A Research in Reversal

by Ozymanreis



Series: Sheriarty Week [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Dark John Watson, Dark Sherlock, Detective Jim, Detective Sebastian - Freeform, Intimidation, Jim Is Good, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning to the story of Detective Jim Moriarty, and his assistant, Sebastian Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Research in Reversal

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of Sheriarty week, prompt: AU!

“I think she’s dead, boss.” Moran rolled his eyes, body shifting in his thin coat. They’d been standing in practically the same spot for _hours_ — in a cold morgue — while Jim examined the corpse.

“ _Focus_ , Sebastian.” Moriarty growls back, magnifying glass trained on a peculiar bruise on the corpse’s wrist, “This is an important part of your training.”

“‘Important part of my training?’” Jim’s assistant parroted sarcastically, “Or are you just looking for a sign of your white whale?”

“Ha. Ha.” Jim enunciated each letter, standing up straight and backing away from the corpse, thrusting the magnifying device into Sebastian’s calloused hands, “Why don’t _you_ tell me what you see?”

The ex-sniper leaned over, scrutinizing the same spot Jim had been, “Looks… like a bruise.”

“ _Excellent_ deduction.” Jim lightly kicks the back of his taller companion’s calf, “Look _harder_.”

Sebastian sighed — really, sent home from the army, _honorably_ , and he had nothing better to do than follow around the eccentric detective? — but obeys. “ _Oh_.” He lets slip, with some intrigue, “It’s from a needle. An injection.”

“Most likely done in haste.” Jim noted, “It looks like the work of the Demented Doctor.”

“Watson, was his name?”

“Indeed.” Jim huffed, running a hand through his hair, “Changed his legal name though, to continue practicing medicine, he’d have to… and none of the victims seem to go to the same doctor.”

“Four continents Watson?” Sebastian tapped his chin, “Was that regarding sex or murder?”

“Yes.” Jim waved a hand, “And I said _focus_.”

“Well. What are you looking for? You’ve got your proof it was him.” He shrugged, “I say we call it a day and grab a pint and chips. Can’t exactly catch criminal masterminds running on empty.”

“This will implicate _Watson_.” Jim glared, “I want his _boss_.”

“Thought Watson was just a murderer?”

“Working directly under one of the biggest crime lords in Europe.”

“ _Jim_ \- ” Moran began skeptically.

“He’s _out_ there, Sebastian!” He gestured to the dead woman, “The doctor wouldn’t _just_ kill a Russian spy. Not even on accident!” Especially not on accident — if he’d been trolling for an easy mark, this one would’ve struggled. _No. The mark is from an arterial blood gas. Delicate procedure. She trusted whoever it was. As did the rest of the intelligence agents…_

“There is no actual proof _he_ exists.” Sebastian muttered, “Only a dying serial killer’s last word.”

“ _Holmes_.” Jim hisses.

“Right, right…” Sebastian shrugged, “I’ll let you tell me all about him on the way to the pub, yeah?”

  


* * *

  


For all Sebastian’s oversimplifications, and the occasional suggestion that most problems would be fixed if Jim simply _arrested_ most of his quarries, the man _did_ know how to take the detective’s mind off of his troubles. After much cajoling, they went to the pub, had some deliciously fried things, a little beer, and Jim was a little bit more chipper. 

Of course, the next morning he’d be kicking himself for getting distracted from the mission. But he’d been grasping at the coattails of Holmes’ trail for almost a year, and it wasn’t until a month ago he’d even gotten his name. His _last_ name.

They meandered back to their Conduit St. flat, both opting to go immediately to their rooms. Sebastian was probably going to pass out without a hitch. _Lucky bastard. Sleeps so easily, like there isn’t an entire unexplored world of mystery…_

Falling in to bed, Jim’s phone cheeps at him. _Of all the times, Lestrade…_ He groans, resolving to text back that he was a little too relaxed to get into a case of missing architectural plans at this very moment. “It was the gardener, anyway…” He murmurs, but trails off as he sees the number is blocked.  

  


**There’s a car outside your flat. Do you see it?**

****  


Jim blinked. _Vaguely ominous._ He perks his head up, peering out the window. A black Sedan, idling on the curb, windows tinted pitch black. 

****  


**Yes. JM**

****  


**Get in it.**

**Don’t bring the Colonel.**

  


He scowled. _So presumptuous…_

****  


**I’m not in the habit of getting in strange cars, especially when I don’t know what’s waiting for me inside them. JM**

****  


**Don’t be boring.**

**Besides. You’re such a fan of my work. I thought we should have a sit down.**

****  


**Holmes? JM**

  


Jim waited several minutes, no reply. Every one of his sensibilities screamed _trap_. Don’t bring Sebastian? His muscle? Besides. His obsession with finding this mysterious “Holmes” had gotten around, and Moriarty had gained many enemies. Someone could just be utilizing his name to catch his attention. _Then again, he never said it… it’s just me being hopeful… but there’s only one person’s “work…”_  

  


**If I was going to kill you, I would’ve done so already.**

**Now hurry up, I’m not waiting all night.**

  


Well… curiosity was one of his vices. And what good would it be to resist? He got up, straightening out his slightly wrinkled suit. He tiptoed out into the living room, listening, making sure he wouldn’t be followed. 

Sebastian’s snores confirmed no one would miss him if he disappeared. _Not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying…_ He thought wistfully as he descended the stairs, the vehicle now waiting right in front of the door. _Well… fortune favors the brave._

What Jim is _expecting_ once he opens the door, is a car full of thugs and their handler, guns trained on him. Either about to get shot, or strong-armed into the car, a bag thrown over his head. 

What the _reality_ is, is the car is empty. Well. Almost. 

A single man sits on one of the rows of seats, all leather, back to the driver. The man is… slim. Dark, curly hair, piercing blue eyes, wearing a freshly pressed Dolce & Gabbana suit. His legs are crossed at the knee, one resting so easily over the other. He pays Jim no attention, except to nod at the seats across from him.

Shocked at the reception, Jim concedes, getting in, shutting the heavy door behind him. _Bulletproof, as well as the windows_.

“Jim Moriarty.” The man finds his voice (his _beautiful_ , deep voice) as the car begins to move forward, “As I live and breathe.” He _does_ sound breathless. His eyes linger on Jim, as if he were witnessing the creation of something precious.

The detective’s mind floods with questions. _Where are we going? What do you want with me? Who sent you? Will I be allowed any final words?_ But before all, he must know the only _important_ answer up in the air, “… Holmes?” It comes out a panicked whisper, filled with awe and _longing_. 

The man smiles, nodding once, “Please. Call me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes.” Jim lets the name pass his tongue. “Hello…” _So stupid… my one chance to talk to the man, and all I can utter is “hello.” He should have my tongue for the awkwardness alone…_ He really shouldn’t have had that second pint. 

Thankfully, the criminal picked up on his guest’s reticence, “I promise you, I’m not as scary as my reputation might suggest… but it’s hard to see past an initial impression, isn’t it?” He asked, a long finger tracing a bit of condensation on the inside of the window. “I think we should adopt a more amicable air, don’t you agree?”

Jim raised his eyebrows. He’d like to, yes. But if this were a mission of intimidation, it seemed the wrong way to go about it. Or was his arch-nemesis really so playful as to poke at his prey? 

The taller man pulled a chilled bottle of something from the center console, procuring two fluted glasses from a pocket in the door. “Drink?” 

Jim did his best not to react at all, a tight control over his body language, still on his guard.

“Mr. Moriarty…” Sherlock tutted, carefully filling each glass with a pale chartreuse liquid. “Why oh _why_ would I waste my infinite talents on _poisoning_ you, hm? In my own car, of all places… such a mess. _Accidents_ are much more useful.” He handed him the champagne, fizzing happily in its container, “Besides. This is six-hundred quid a bottle, that’d just be insulting.” He raised his glass, “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Jim replied, still reserved. He took a sip, and could _immediately_ tell the criminal wasn’t lying about the price tag. He felt a little safer — Holmes didn’t seem the type to want an unexplained body in his midst.

“Have you been having a good day? Aside from not being able to catch whoever did in that pretty little number in the morgue drawer?”

Jim grimaced. Small talk. He wasn’t one for social propriety, “You’d know something about _that_ , wouldn’t you?”

“Nothing intimately, I assure you.” Sherlock said very calmly, “But I take an interest in all you do… as I read in the papers, Jefferson Hope declared you’d made a fan of his employer.”

“Which was you.”

“I’m a fan of yours, yes.” Sherlock grinned, taking another sip, “But I’m not so stupid as to admit I was anywhere _near_ that whole debacle… you have many fans, I could be from anywhere.”

“I see.” Jim drank a little more, just to give himself a moment to think. 

“We don’t have to talk.” Sherlock assured, “We just need to have a serious discussion, I thought it was best initiated by a lighter air…” 

“How kind of you…” Jim mused, gripping on his knee for some purchase on reality. He felt lightheaded, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. Maybe, _maybe_ he was sitting in the same vehicle as everything he’d been searching for, “I… not to be rude, but how do I know you’re _really_ him? Sending a stand-in seems like something a man of mystery would do.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Of course it’s something I _do_. But not with my equivalent of a super hero. An idol, even!” There was a twinge of hurt in his words; sincerity hidden in hyperbole. 

“I… I’m flattered.” There honestly wasn’t much _else_ to say to that. Jim felt a blush creep under his eyes, and hoped it was only the slight tipsiness, not actual embarrassment.

“You’re forgiven.” Sherlock snipped, implying there should’ve been an apology at all. _How manipulative…_ Jim thought, but he was impressed by the criminal’s ability to pull his emotions like taffy. 

“Now… to business…” Sherlock considered, twirling his glass, “My first instinct was to kill you…” He admitted, mouth stretching into a crooked smirk, “But then I thought… well, your talents might be useful. Yours _and_ Mr. Moran’s.”

“Talents?” It was perplexing to say the least. Jim was somehow entirely captivated by the man in front of him, blatantly threatening to kill him. It might’ve had something to do with the _voice_ , a lovely baritone shot to his spine with each breath. 

“Oh yes… the Colonel has ten years of military experience on Dr. Watson. A crack shot, even from two kilometers away- _yes_ , I _did_ read his file.” Sherlock added, seeing Jim’s face go pale. “And _you…_ ” A glimmer appeared in his eye, “There’s wells of creativity, mayhem and mischief yet untapped in that beautiful brain of yours… such a pity you use it for the wrong side.”

“One would argue the reverse.”

“Playing nice with others was never my strong suit.” Sherlock drained his champagne and set the glass back where he got it, “And I find more thrill in starting fires than putting them out.”

“I’m still not entirely sold.”

“Ah, well… I’ll give you some time to mull it over.” Sherlock frowned, lines of disappointment streaking his usually smooth visage, “But if you decline, I must insist you back off. You’re deterring my clients. And… I don’t know how much you know about _business_ … but it’s not good for my profits.”

“‘Back off.’” Jim echoed, “Or else what?”

“Isn’t that obvious, Mr. Moriarty?” He held out an unassuming hand, taking Jim’s emptied glass and putting it away. “My _original instinct_ will be carried out as planned.”

The car stopped as the sentence did. Right in front of his flat where they began. Somewhere remote, Jim wondered if they’d _rehearsed_ this whole scene. “Well… you’ve given me a lot to think about, Mr. Holmes.” He gave a tight smile, “Am I reading this correctly that I should return to my bed for further consideration?”

“It’s getting late.” Sherlock replied, as if he were actually concerned with such things.

Jim gave a single nod, “Evening, then.” He got up, hurrying to pop the door open. It _was_ a lot to think about, and the sooner he could document all he remembered, the better. 

“Oh, and Jim?” Sherlock lightly grabbed the man’s forearm — the first contact they’ve had since the encounter began.

“Yes?” He turned his head back, only to find his lips suddenly occupied. 

Sherlock had leaned forward in such a way that Jim’s motion had brought them into a kiss. What was most surprising was that it _wasn’t_ surprising at all. The entire conversation had been so _charged_ , but Jim had assumed it was rivalry. 

But obviously, as he leaned further into it, they both had other ideas. His lips parted, and he felt Sherlock’s tongue swipe lightly between them. 

His brain shouted a silent _no!_ as Sherlock’s fingertips pressed firmly against his lapel, splitting them. Leaving him wanting, on the cusp of _some_ sort of closure, and it’s denied. 

Because Sherlock wants him to come back for more. On his own. 

“You’re a beautiful specimen.” The criminal purred, voice even lower than before, “I would _hate_ to see anything unfortunate happen before I can properly study you.”

Jim chose not to respond, disengaging from Sherlock’s grasp and scurrying back into the house.

_Well… it could’ve gone worse._ He thought, flipping the living room light on. It was only about half an hour since the duo had gotten home, but Jim had lost _all_ tiredness, exhilarated by the prospect of new information. New _sensation…_

_Taking inventory, right…_ He was alive, for now. No immediate plans for his or Sebastian’s execution. Forgetting the kiss for a moment, that _offer_ …

Except he couldn’t forget it. He’d wear that brief contact for life, no matter how tragically short it’d be cut… or be “studied.” _How can he make something so clinical, so appealing?_  

“Sebastian!” He called, kicking the door to his bedroom in, startling his partner. 

“Wha-what?!” He scrambled up, wearing nothing but his boxers, years of scarring visible in the streams of hall light, “Did the boogeyman strike?”

“Close enough.” Jim shrugged, “But it’s nothing so insidious.” 

Sebastian groaned, vigorously rubbing his eyes, “Then why the hell did you wake me?”

Jim’s features curled into a malicious grin, “Why else? We have a case.”


End file.
